Wooden and upright,

A field of long, dry grass.

An autumn breeze.

Our piano.

 

Deep red wood, dull and warm.

Dents and scratches.

Unique. Loved.

Under the sun’s last arch.

 

Three sparrows circle and flit,

Darting through the grass,

Each sharing the lead for a moment.

Swoop and roll and flap.

 

They land on our piano,

Ever so lightly on the keys.

One on G, one on B, one on E.

The softest G major whispers in the field.

A happy chord, a bright chord.

A chord that swells the chest,

Strengthens hearts.

 

Or was it,

One E, one G, one B?

E minor.

Are the sparrows warning us?

Is the whisper darker than we thought?

Does it balance at a different point?

 

The sparrows seem oblivious,

To their composition.

They resume their chase on the breeze.

The day is nearly done.

The field bathes in an evening glow.

Shadows crawl east.

 

Once the night comes,

We are gone,

And the sparrows in their hollows,

Once she can be sure,

No strangers will pass,

Our piano plays a gentle melody.

And sings herself to sleep.

 

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